A Demon's Soul
by Scriptor Immortallis
Summary: The night of his disembodiment, Voldemort had decided to send a message. A decade later, he decides he should've done it differently. Tags: werewolves, vampires, smart, intelligent, opinionated, hufflepuff, harry, kickass, awesome, genius,
1. Teaser revamped

Harry lay in his cupboard, an unfamiliar feeling of anger within him. Unsure of where the feelings had come from, or why they had decided to mar his peaceful morning, he concentrated on them, trying to find where they were coming from. He shifted uncomfortably, his body cold and grimy from sleeping on the unyeilding wooden floor.

For some reason enirely unknown to him, the feeling of anger rose. As it did, Harry noticed the beginnings of another headache, which had been occuring more and more frequently. Shaking his head in an attempt to dispell it, he rose into a cross legged position, and breathed deeply, distancing his mind from the pain.

"Get up you worthless freak!" his aunt's shrill harpy's voice cut through his meditation, jarring him violently. With an almost imperceptable groan, Harry realized that his headache had worsened.

"What was that boy?" his aunt asked in a dangerous whisper.

"Nothing," he replied, his mind quite elsewhere. Petunia's hand was fast, and although she was much weaker than her husband, Harry curmpled to the side. 'His' anger grew, but was viciously tamped down as he rose and walked slowly to the kitchen. his aunt muttered loudly about ungrateful freaks as she ascended the stairs to wake Dudley.

Breakfast at the Dursley's was always the same. They were unnaturaly anal as to it's preparation, and god forbid it was ever done incorrectly. The toast was first, medium-dark, eight slices. Two for Petunia, three each for the Dursley men. This was followed by a half dozen eggs, one for Petunia, two each for the remaining Dursleys. The tamato was cut into eight slices, never wedges. Always prepared in a separate pan, medium heat, in a tablespoon of olive oil, lightly peppered, no salt. Once done, Harry was to use the same pan, at high heat, for the hashbrowns, and if these were burned, Harry would receive no food for the day. Lastly, a pound of bacon, cripsy, in the pan used previously for the eggs. If the bacon wasn't crispy, the grease was poured onto the floor of his cupboard.

Thankfully, Harry hadn't mismade breakfast in weeks, and was expecting his usual fare. This was not the case. His aunt explained that he would be allowed to go on the fieldtrip his class was taking, as it would be shameful to the family if the Dursleys appeared to be unable to pay enough to send both boys. As they would be in London, Harry was given the scratchy side of a sponge and used dishwater to clean himself with, and denied his morning food.

It was an ambiguously gray, cloudy Tuesday two weeks before school let out. The buses stood gleaming in the parking lot, and the children were all there loudmouthed, obnoxious selves. With the noteable exceptions of Harry and Dudley's gang, whowas already plotting how to rid themsleves of the freak. Forever

Harry Potter was once again running from his driveling, draffsack of a cousin Dudley Dursley. Normally, Harry would've Dudley and his entourage in the dust, but the school had taken a fieldtrip to London and harry had no idea where to run.

"Get back here freak!" Dudley yelled, "Take your beating like a man!"

Harry was torn. On one hand, he detested fighting, preferring to attempt to settle things in a peaceful manner. On the other he felt a strong urge to turn, fight, and relish in the bloodshed and pain of his enemies. It called out to him, and he found himself thinking, why shouldn't I? Turnabout is far play after all. No! Stop this irrational thinking he thought harshly, violence is _almost_ never the answer. And never, never against the Dursleys.

Dudley's footsteps were getting closer and he knew he had to ditch them, and quickly. He ducked down an alley, praying to every god and goddess he knew that it wouldn't be a dead end. Luckily, it wasn't. Unluckily, Dudley and Co. were still following him. To his right Harry saw a seedy looking bar. He would've sighed in relief, but it was across an intersection that was always busy.

His adrenaline level, which were already high, shot even higher as his panic increased, kicking his fight or flight instinct into hyper drive. He could fight, stand up for himself, and pay Dudley back for years of unwarranted abuse, showing him what **pain **was. Something within him screamed yes, something malevolent and bloodthirsty. Again he resisted, but this time it was harder. His headache was getting worse, and his vision was blurrier than usual.

He was so focused on his dilemma that he didn't notice Dudley'd caught up to him until a heavy hand clamped down on his right shoulder. He reacted before he could think, his hands flying up, his right clamping down over Dudley's, and his left grabbing the back of his head. He slammed his right heel into Dudley's crotch, simultaneously going up on the ball of his left foot and using that momentum to pitch forward, slamming Dudley into the pavement before rolling forward over the abused body of his cousin,.

Harry ran like the hounds of hell were after him. Which metaphorically, they were. He slid over car hoods and squeaked in between car bumpers to panicked to realize that none of the cars appeared to be moving. His vision gained a reddish tint to it.

Dudley's fat, stupid friends ran after him before they realized that they couldn't see him. They heard the screeching of brakes before their minds were overloaded with pain signals, and they lapsed ino unconciousness.

Harry ran into the bar and quickly found himself a hostage of the Vamps, one of the two largest gangs in London. He was facing a line of constables, who had their guns out, aimed at the gang members behind him. A large, tanned hand was clamped around his left shoulder, digging painfully into the muscle. A knife was at his throat, and Harry instinctively froze, hardly daring to breathe. His headache worsened, and black dots exploded across the red tint of his vision.

"Drop your weapons! If you don't-" the knife tipped upwards, slicing Harry's neck. That "something" within him that he'd been trying to hold back burst forth, a crushing tsunami that destroyed Harry's feeble attempts at resistance. Just before he became unconcious, his headache stopped entirely.

"Goddamnit!" Harry roared, shocking the adults into flinching. Time slowed, and while they were all distracted, Harry smashed the ball of his right foot into his assailant's left, reaching up and grabbing the man's right wrist. He ducked, yanking his shoulder out of the man's grip, and whirled around, fluidly adjusting his grip so that his left hand held the man's forearm, while he palm heeled the knife into the man's heart. He heaved backwards, using the man as a meat shield, and stared at the blood flowing over his hands, so warm and sticky, a glistening ruby red, it'd probably taste delicious, like pudding. He stuck his tongue out to taste it- and time returned to normal.


	2. Aftermath and Some Explainations

**AN/ Chapter One, Teaser, has been slightly updated, including a more detailed fight scene. I'll most likely be able to update every Sunday, so yeah.**

One of the gang members pulled up a shotgun, and managed to empty five shots in Harry's general direction before he was gunned down. Unfortunately for Harry, the man's shots ricocheted, one bullet skimming across his face. It left a thin cut vertically across his left eye that bled profusely.

Scene Change

_"The exciting and touching story of how a small school's fieldtrip to London turned into a 9-car pileup and ended in a little boy's involvement in a police bust." The newscaster said. "Tonight at six."_

Officer Thorne was a rookie cop, about to be caught up in this because she was the closest to the scene when the call came in, requesting backup due a change in the situation. As she arrived, she was catching her breath, having had to run the last block due to a traffic accident. She heard gun shots ring out, and hesitated, before breathing deeply and strengthening her resolve.

She moved quickly, pulling her gun up, shooting to kill. There wasn't anything to shoot though. She checked on the gang members, and, finding them dead, called for an ambulance. She wondered how the situation had changed, because the distress caller had been killed before he could relay that information.

"Officer?" Harry asked softly, noting that she was startled, "Do have any Band-Aids?" Turning slowly, as not to freak out what she could only assume was a child, Rose flinched visibly when she saw the amount of blood on Harry's face.

"Lay down please," she said as soothingly as she could. She grimaced at the thought of the marring scar the wound was almost certain to leave, but worked quickly, hoping she could at least fade it somewhat. She ripped of the sleeves of her uniform and tied them together. Folding them in half length-wise, she then wiped at the cut with the sleeve of another cop's uniform before tying it around his head like an eye patch.

"This is going to sting," she said, pulling an alcohol wipe from a pack in her pocket. She wiped as thoroughly and lightly as she could. Harry was used to the unique burn of rubbing alcohol, far more than he should be thanks to Dudley, but this was different. This wasn't a small scrape from getting pushed down; it was a deep, heavily bleeding gash. There was so much pain, and Harry started hyperventilating, because the thought, _what if I can't see?_, had flashed through his mind. He fell into a state of non-responsive shock.

A force within in him different from the previous one, pushed Harry's magic to heal his wound, but only managed to stem the bleeding and make the gash shallower. The dark force saw a chance for possession, but was counteracted before it could completely do so. Both forces were pushed into Harry's psyche, allowing them to communicate with their host.

Officer Rose Thorne, preoccupied with driving Harry back to the station for questioning and professional medical attention, missed the swirling black glow surround Harry's damaged eye, and the out of place psychotic grin that accompanied it. She drove on, unaware that there was no longer an innocent boy, but a boy, his mother, and a vampiric demon Voldemort hybrid soul sharing a little boy's body.

Six years previously, Halloween

"Pathetic," Voldemort said, watching as Lily's body collapsed to the floor, like a puppet with its strings cut. "Weak. But in death you shall be useful," he drawled, pulling a knife from his belt. He crouched beside her, moving quickly, mindful of Dumbledore's rapid approach. As he drew a pentagram with Lily's blood, he nearly chuckled (evilly), because of the simplicity of this ritual. Voldemort stood to his full height, and swept imperiously over to the crib where Harry lay. He hefted Harry onto his left arm, face contorted in pure disgust. He took perverse delight in carving a sowilo into it's, for he refused to consider babies human, forehead, relishing in the screams of pain it produced. Quickly becoming annoyed when Harry didn't shut up, he cast a full-body bind and placed Harry in the center of the pentagram.

"Nox,' he intoned, remembering that the ritual was more potent in the darkness. Feeling the preliminary tingle of strong anti-apparition wards, Voldemort rushed, accidently skipping over one of the binding clauses, specifically the one that kept outside souls from getting involved. He then attempted to apparate out, hoping the demon would devour Harry before running wild. Unfortunately, the wards had already gone up, and he was forced into the circle from the backlash. The hellfire roared up around the center of the pentagram, and Voldemort couldn't even scream, his body burning to ash in seconds. This felt like a pin prick compared to the feeling of having his soul forcibly ripped once again, and he barely managed to escape alive.

The demon turned its attentions to Lily, who was in denial and trying frantically to get back into her body. It watched her in confusion and a small amount of amusement before grabbing her deciding it was hungry. As the beast was debating which soul to eat first, and heavily considering the female, it felt a magical signature that had it pissing its non-existent pants. The signature began moving faster, and the creature tried to jump back through the portal, but it had closed when Voldemort's body had been destroyed.

Panicked, the demon searched frantically, until it's mad, roving, eyes fell on a previously unnoticed child. With the magical signature only a few feet away, the demon took its two hostages into the child's body along with it. Voldemort's soul shred merged with the demon's as it was overwhelmed, and after a brief possession attempt, Lily managed to split Harry's soul and beat the demon into submission, resulting in a 40/10 split of their shared half.

Dumbledore noticed none of this internal smack down as he took Harry into his arms, effortlessly broke his wards and apparated into an alley a few streets away from Number 4 Privet Drive. Breathing heavily from the toll on his magic, (he had apparated across half the country after all) the aged wizard downed a Pepper Up before walking the last few blocks 'till he hit the end of Privet Drive. He drew his Put-Outer, and after a couple clicks, only the lights directly in front of Number 4 were still on. Walking in the near darkness, Dumbledore left his charge on the doorstep of Number 4 with a blanket and a letter. He walked until he was back at the end of the block, restored the lights and spun into disapparation.

**AN/ To DZ: Arigato Gozaimashita! I'm really grateful that you took the time to write such a thoughtful and detailed review. I have, for the most part updated the first chapter to your specifications, and thoroughly enjoy constructive criticism. **


	3. From Then 'Till Now

**AN/ Sorry for the wait, everyone, as an apology, here's an extra long chapter. Read and review and all that. AN2/ If you get squicked easily, skip down to the 'TIME SKIP'. You'll only miss a rough sketch of how much Harry's life sucks. **

** Reaper**, I hope this answers your question. **"Hollow Voice" **(Bleach reference)

Over the next six years, the Dursley's ritually neglected and physically abused Harry. He was made to sleep in a cupboard, which had nothing. Not light, not a mattress, not even a blanket. It was only cleaned once a year, on Christmas. He was given a bucket of ice-cold water and five minutes. Even just a second more resulted in him being thrown outside for the night. Harry had two sets of clothes, winter and summer. His winter set consisted of a pair of Dudley's boxers and Vernon's most pitted out undershirt. His summer set was a pair of sweatpants and Dudley's most recent down jacket. They had to be replaced yearly, for hopefully obvious reasons. Just like his room, Harry's outfits were only washed once a year, on Christmas.

This practice did not stop, even when Harry started school. It was simply modified. Harry had only two school uniforms, which the Dursley's had bought at a thrift store. They had purposefully selected his clothes to make them as uncomfortable as possible. His summer set had a baggy undershirt and everything else was tight. His belt, his black polo, his shoes, socks, and underwear, everything was tight. His winter set was, naturally, the opposite; it was looser than a drunken nympho. The pants were sized to fit Dudley, the belt was Vernon's (it had a broken buckle), his undershirt was the same as it had always been, and his white polo was very nearly tissue paper. And if his uniform got messed up because of Dudley? It was a one man massacre for Harry, who always, always, lost.

Food? There was a fucked up system for that too. Harry was only allowed scraps. Not scraps that you might give a dog, but more like scraps you would give a Chihuahua. The only things that kept Harry alive were his magic, lighters, and anything edible he could find. Harry's protein came mostly from small animals and nuts, and his magic helped to counteract the sometimes poisonous thing he was forced to eat for survival. The fact that Harry was rational at all or even able to pass for a normal child was a miracle.

Hygiene? Harry was given dishwater, one minute, and the scratchy side of a sponge. End of story.

How did they get away with all this? It was a combination of people's unwillingness to truly believe that something that unnatural could happen on the 'perfect' street that was Privet Drive, and some pretty thorough cover stories. School: They said that Harry was 'going through a phase', and no amount of punishment had had any effect. Dentist: They said that he had gotten his teeth from his father's side of the family. Doctor: Bribed into silence. CPS: Harry tried once. He never tried again. Ever.

'**TIME SKIP'**

After Harry was nearly hospitalized by Dudley on April 22nd 1988, the demon was forced to partially merge with Harry's physical self in order to keep them alive. This resulted in turning a portion of Harry's blood (roughly a third), demonic. Due to this, the control of Harry's soul became a 50/30/20 split, as opposed to the earlier 50/40/10 split.

Time Skip

Harry, as usual, was having a normal day. He was walking home from school, which was normal, read: shitty, and was currently running from Dudley, which was a normal (shitty) end to a normal (shitty) day. Harry tripped and blacked out, falling to the ground. Dudley and his 'friends' gathered around the fallen Harry and were about to go to town on his ass when, suddenly, he wasn't there. The demon had taken over. Current Split: 0/30/70.

There was a black blur, and Pier Polkiss collapsed, unconscious. This continued until Dudley was the only member of his little gang left. Suddenly Harry blurred in front of Dudley's terrified eyes, but somehow, Dudley knew that this wasn't his cousin. For one, Harry was smirking, looking all too much like a cat about to kill a mouse, and for another, his eyes were the vibrant shade of shed blood.

** "I took them out so they won't see you fall to my power. You should thank me." **The demon said mockingly, **"But we both know you won't. It's okay. You'll not be able to when I'm done with you."**

"Wha-?" was all Dudley had the chance to say before Harry blurred again, and then, he found himself thrown to the end of a dead-end alley. The air whooshed of Dudley like a popped balloon, and before he knew what was going on, Harry was on top of him, wailing on his face until finally, it ended with the sound of Dudley's nose breaking.

**"Get up ya damn pussy. You think I've not to deal with worse?" **Dudley tried to get up, struggling, sobbing, his tears turning pink as they mixed with the blood on his face. **"Too slow."** A beer bottle was smashed into his left shoulder, shards exploding into his face, narrowly missing his jugulars. **"I could've sworn I said get up." **

Dudley shat himself. Pissed on himself too, involuntarily of course. He was silent with fear, even though he wished desperately to yell for help. **"Do you require more incentive? Is that why you are being so slow?" **Dudley, in a fit of stupidity, gave in to his urges and cried out desperately. **"It seems you do." ** The demon said, and with that, he took the rest of the bottle and plunged it into Dudley's left palm, swiftly dropping an axe kick onto Dudley's jaw with enough force to crack it. That shut him up.

The demon glanced at Dudley's blood-spattered watch, and realized it only had four minutes to finish up. He grabbed a nearby pipe and slammed it into Dudley's leg, before throwing it away and jumping up and down on Dudley's chest until he hear a symphony of cracks. He was about to throw Dudley back to the beginning of the alley when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. It was a wooden drumstick. The demon left him there, and blurred back to the Dursley's after taking Dudley's wallet. His final words echoed in Dudley's ears, **"Tell them you were mugged, or else."**

Harry came to in the middle of doing his chores, thoroughly confused.

Two Hours Later

Harry was in the middle of making dinner, his most hated chore, when he heard Petunia shriek. Her precious Dinkydiddidums was limping awkwardly up the walkway, looking like shit. He collapsed, his body unable to keep up with the strain of moving itself, resulting in a concussion and a sprained ankle.

As Petunia rushed outside, Harry blacked out momentarily, and when he came around a few seconds later, he was confused as to why Dudley suddenly looked so intimidated. Harry cocked his head to the side in confusion, before returning to his work. Dudley's eyes however, had glazed over, his mind shutting down as it went into trauma induced shock.

Vernon had just pulled up the drive and noticed the state of his son. He yelled at Petunia to go and get her purse as pulled out his cell and began calling for an ambulance. She ran like an Olympic sprinter only stopping to yell at Harry to finish making food and then return to his cupboard. Vernon, meanwhile, had moved Dudley into the car (an impressive feat), and buckled him in. He moved quickly into the driver's seat and blared the horn, bellowing at Petunia to hurry up. Petunia barreled into the car, almost before Vernon had even started. They peeled out, tire squealing, speeding (literally), towards the nearest hospital.

Harry's demon smirked internally, satisfied that Dudley wouldn't tell. Harry was oblivious to this and finished making dinner. As he was heading into his cupboard, he heard the car pulling into the drive, but something about it seemed off. Harry reluctantly, with a rising feeling of apprehension, turned and began walking back to the kitchen. He never made it.

Vernon, drunk and angry, didn't even consider opening the door like a normal person, and threw his weight against it, smashing it off its hinges and sending it flying into the front hall. Breathing heavily, the drunken brute half glowered, half squinted through its bloodshot eyes. Brandy billowed around the beast, like a cloud of cigar smoke. Sherry's sickly stench shrouded him, stinging at Harry's senses. Vomit drenched his front, and sweat made his clothes and hair cling to him in a disgusting manner. Harry gagged, the terrible trifecta tugging his stomach through his esophagus, only for it to be slammed back down with sheer force of will.

Harry froze, hoping desperately that Vernon hadn't heard. He hoped in vain. Vernon stumbled forward, a gun in hand and hatred burning in his eyes.

"Boy!" He roared, and his face, already red with drunkenness, began purpling with rage. "I'll not have you befouling my house with your freakishness any longer!" He roared again- a wordless cry, starting loud and getting louder, less human as it went on and on, in Harry's mind at least. He emptied the fifteen- shot magazine in an attempt to murder the scared, green-eyed boy in front of him in cold blood.

Fortunately, Vernon was drunk, and a terrible shot besides, and Harry was only hit once, a searing, burning pain that exploded suddenly across Harry's right shoulder, jerking him up and back before slamming him rudely into the ground, knocking him into the blissful nothingness of sleep. The random hail of gunfire, coupled with Harry's loud, short; blood-chilling scream had the police phoned in a matter of seconds, arriving in a matter of minutes.

They arrived to a grisly scene. Vernon was passed out in a pool of his own vomit, a gun in his right hand. A small child, appearing to be no more than four or five, was unconscious, blood gushing out of a wound in his right shoulder with frightening speed, having already made a gory halo around his head, and spreading fast.

Setting the gun aside as evidence, they put Vernon in handcuffs and had him shoved in the back of police vehicle almost before the ambulance arrived. They sped Harry into the ambulance before gathering reports from the neighbors and taking a closer look at the scene. At the end of their investigation, they had Vernon pulled up on charges of damage to private property, seeing as he had severely damaged the neighbor's car before plowing the left side of his car through half of their fence, attempted murder, and drunk driving. He was looking at seven years in prison at least, and over a thousand dollars in damages.

That had been roughly two months ago, and Lily had been working full time to keep the demon from influencing her baby boy like that ever again. It fought her every step of the way.

Harry was pulled from his memories by the sound of the newscast beginning.

**Make sure to review, favorite or PM, with suggestions, comments, and questions and I'll do my best to be prompt with responding. Thanks to everyone who has already, reviewed, favorite, or just read my story, it means a lot to me.**


	4. Interviews pt 1

**AN/ Thank you everyone for reviewing, favoriting, and reading. I apologize for the wait, and wish to announce that I am now requesting a Beta in order to improve the quality of the writing that I post. Please enjoy the next installment of "A Demon's Soul."**

"Seven-year-olds Harry Potter, Dudley Dursley, Piers Polkiss and three others from Little Whinging Elementary in Surrey were visiting London earlier today in what was supposed to be a routine fieldtrip. However, in a tragedy of errors, this fieldtrip became a tale that has this reporter questioning not only the parenting of these children, but the integrity and dedication of their teachers. We here at Channel 17 wish to congratulate Harry on his exemplary bravery and calm in the face of the mortal peril he faced when he found himself the hostage of one of London's most notorious gangs, the Vamps. This unfortunate situation wouldn't have even been conceivable had it not been for Harry's cousin Dudley Dursley, and four other boys, including Piers Polkiss, all of whom are currently recovering from serious injuries they sustained from running into a four lane street. And now; a short break for the weather forecast."

Channel 17 News Anchorman Stanley Granger sighed, cradled his coffee in his hands, savoring the warmth and smell of hazelnuts. He drank deeply, shaking the tired from last night, and preparing for the long, long night ahead of him as he covered the story. He started, nearly sloshing himself with his delicious coffee when his cell phone went off. Taking a calming breath and setting his coffee down on the desk in front of him, his free hand going to his pocket to pull his phone out. Glancing at the caller ID, Stanley flipped his cell open.

"Aayyy," he drawled, spinning around in his chair, a lazy smirk spreading across his features, "How's my favorite doctor? Practice going well?"

"I'm doing swimmingly, and your niece is fine as well." Dr. Daniel Granger drawled right back. "The practice is fine as well. I'm looking forward to rest of the story, do me proud."

Stanley hung up, seeing as he only had thirty seconds until the weather report was over. He drained his Styrofoam cup and lobbed it at the rubbish bin, missed, not even close. Making sure his hair was perfectly in place, he glanced back at the clock; two seconds.

"And we're back!" He said shooting a dashing grin directly into the camera and t into the hearts of London's young single women. "Tonight we will be looking at what exactly happened earlier today from the perspectives of a rookie officer, Miss Rose Thorne, Mr. Dudley Dursley, and young Harrison Potter. Unfortunately Dudley Dursley is not able to physically be here, as he is suffering from a ruptured testicle and a smattering of broken ribs. I was informed as I walked checked into the hospital in order for an interview that Mr. Dursley had been released from said hospital as recently as a week ago, the result of a severe mugging that occurred two months ago. I have with me a paper copy of the interview that I was granted earlier this afternoon.

I opened the interview directly, asking how exactly he had managed to end up seven blocks away from the rest of his group without adult supervision. His answer, to say the least, was both shocking and appalling. Dudley replied that he was "Harry Hunting", a game he and his friends played all the time with his cousin. When further questioned about "Harry Hunting", Mr. Dursley revealed that object of the so-called game was to hunt down his cousin Harry, chase him down, and beat him with fists and other weapons until they grew bored. Stanley sighed heavily, taking a pause before continuing.

"Understandably horrified, I asked Dudley why he would do such a thing, and of course what his parents would have to say about this atrocious behavior and gratuitous violence. He cocked his head at me as if confused, before answering: "Because he's a freak," as calmly and straightforwardly as if we were discussing the weather. When again asked what his parents would say, this little boy gave his most disturbing answer yet, stating that his father, Vernon Dursley, age 31, would likely pat him on the back, tell him once again that he was growing up to be a fine young man, and that in the past, he had often been rewarded with ice cream in similar situations,"

"Unable to the continue the interview, I left, heading down to Scotland Yard to see if the despicable man had a criminal record. As it turned out, he did. Starting almost exactly six years ago, with various lawsuits for sexual harassment filed by many of the female employees at Grunnings, as well as a dismissed case of sexual assault and attempted rape. Vernon Dursley is currently serving an eight year prison sentence for the attempted murder of his nephew, Harry Potter, almost two months ago, which was coincidently the same night that his son was apparently mugged, and consequently hospitalized." He said, glancing at his watch. "We'll be cutting for commercial, and the live interviews of Officer Thorne and Harrison Potter are up next."

Stanley pushed himself out of his chair and went to go meet Harry before the interview to familiarize himself with his interviewee. Walking backstage, he sighed, rubbing the heels of his hands against his face. Blinking a few times to adjust to not being under the glare of the stage lighting, he barely managed to restrain himself from flinching when he saw the bloodied gauze wrapped around the boy's, no, young man's left eye. He knelt so that he was as close to eye level as possible, knowing that his 6'2" frame tended to strike fear into the hearts of younger and smaller children.

He spoke softly, so as not to frighten Harry. "Hello, I'm Stanley Granger; I'll be asking you some questions about earlier today if that's alright with you."

"O-okay," Harry said shakily, "but why are we whispering?"

"Umm…" Stanley said, thrown for a loop, "Because some people think I'm intimidating." He whispered a little more loudly, "Do you?"

Harry scoffed, surprising himself and Stanley, "You, scare me?" he drawled incredulously, wondering where his sudden attitude change had come from. "Please," Harry said shaking his head as if at a naïve child. "I've recently been shot for the second time in my life. Did you really think that just a little height and a deep voice are gonna make me piss myself?" Harry walked away, leaving Stanley to wonder what the hell just happened. He was still in this state when one of the techies reminded him that he was on in five minutes.

**AN/ Sorry for the delay, and in response to Blue Strawberry Fang, Ichigo will be showing up, but not until 4****th**** year. If this story goes the way I want it too, that may be a long time from now. That said, I'll work faster at updating.**


	5. Interviews: The exciting conclusion?

**AN/ NB: The demon is a composite of a small shred of Voldemort's soul and the demon he summoned, which was of a vampiric nature Harry will gain certain weaknesses and strengths, but will still be mortal, just really, really hard to kill. Further Bleach references will be appearing this chapter. For those of you who are still confused, I apologize. This story will begin to pull itself together and hopefully make more sense soon.**

While Harry stood oblivious to the effect he'd had on Stanley, a fierce argument was occurring within the deep recesses of his soul.

"Will you stop influencing my son?" Lily asked, a dangerous gleam dancing in her eyes, "Or will I have to beat you down again?"

"I can't help it." The demon said hoarsely, its voice showing signs of disuse. Lily couldn't help herself either, pausing in shock. This was the first time that the demon had spoken in the six years since it had been forced it and herself into her child. It took advantage of her shock, initializing its attack with an explosive ball of energy. As her body went on autopilot, Lily reflected on her past six years of a living a half-life. It was just her and that _thing_ trapped in what was, as far as she could tell, Harry's soul.

It was an alright place she supposed, a large valley ringed with tall mountains, which were occasionally eiree with their looming, craggy peaks. Scattered around the valley itself were her namesake, the lily. It was often accompanied by a variety of flower she had never seen or heard of. They had long, black stems and eight pointed petals, stacked four-on-four. The petals ranged from a bright, ruby red, to a deep, red-black color, appearing to almost be dried blood. Lily was forced to return her attentions to the battle when a spear of energy punched through her left shoulder, continuing on to crack the base of the tallest mount, whose shadow they were currently fighting in. The force of it had sent Lily spinning into the ground, leaving her breath behind. With her shoulder already healing itself, Lily rolled to her feet, snapping a blood-red shield into existence in front of her, dissipating the follow up shot into nothing. Out in the physical world, a much meeker Harry was shaking like a chiuaua as he mentally prepared himself to face all of England on live, national television.

(Interview)

"So Rose, may I call you Rose?" Stanley began, continuing when she nodded. "What exactly were your thoughts when you answered the distress call?"

She leaned forward in her seat, casting her face into better light. "Honestly? I was terrified. I mean, who wouldn't be? When the call came in, I could barely make out the location over the sound of gunshots. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to run away, but then I remembered the oath that I had made to myself the night of my induction: To protect and serve. Not only the Queen, but also the innocents and those who could not fight for themselves. With this in mind, I gathered my courage, my resolve, and I did what needed done.

"Please, you are too humble. Had it not been for you, two officers would have died from there injuries, and Harry Potter would've lost all sight in his left eye." Stanley said.

"To be fair Stan, do you mind if I call you Stan? Doctors save lives every day, and that's their job. Firefighters save lives every day, and that's their job. When an assembly line worker wakes up at the crack of dawn to put something on something else over and over and over again, that's his job. Don't praise me for doing my job, praise me for doing it well." Rose said with a hint more of confidence.

"But didn't you do your job well?" Stanley asked, unknowingly hitting on a sore subject.

Rose stiffened, and the only part of her that seemed alive any more were her eyes, a glaring amber. When she spoke, it was distant and emotionless.

"If I had done my job well, not a single officer would've died." She said through clenched teeth. Officer Thorne took a deep breath, trying to steady herself before she continued. "I-I did my best," She began, her mask of stony indifference cracking. "But my best wasn't good enough." She walked off set, her shoulders heaving as her body was wracked with sobs.

Stanley was shocked, and words were already out of his mouth before he realized he was speaking. "I'll need to continue, but if we could get someone to help Rose, that'd be great."

Clearing his throat, Stanley asked Harry to come onstage, and with him walking in stage left, all of those watching were immediately shocked, more than a few gasped, and some even fainted. Showing no outward reaction, Stanley asked his first question.

"Harry, you told me earlier that today was the second time that you have been shot at in your life. If it's not too personal, when was the first time you were shot at and why?" Harry was panicking, scared and apprehensive when a wave o f calm swept over him and he was filled with what he could imagine was what love felt like.

"I- it was my uncle," he whispered, a sound that was barely picked up by the microphones, and was almost mistaken for a rush of static by those who were watching. "He said I was a-a-" here Harry paused, his temporary calm shattered, taking his confidence with it.

"It's okay Harry, you can tell me, no one will hurt you." Ace News Reporter Stanley Granger said calmly, getting out of his chair and onto his knees before the traumatized Harry. When his eyes met Harry's emerald orbs, he flinched, suddenly feeling very exposed, as if all of his life's evil was laid before him in an omnipotent judgement. It passed as it had come, swiftly and silently, but Stanley was still shaken, for what was the second time that night.

Harry didn't know why, but he suddenly trusted the man before him, and he was no longer a big scary stranger. With his confidence almost overwhelming now, Harry spoke loudly and clearly, unknowingly layering his voice with magic, creating a compulsion that would focus people onto him.

"Vernon," Harry spat, the venom oozing from his tone, "Called me a freak. He always has. He was drunk that night, and he had somehow acquired a handgun. I later found out that it had had a 15-shot magazine and that I had been extremely lucky to get away with a bullet to the shoulder. He'd fired from point-blank range, and I was too scared, too shocked really, to move."

Stanley took Harry's sudden intensity in stride and continued as though unaffected. " Harry if you wouldn't mind, could you please give us the full account of what occurred earlier today, beginning from you and the other boy's separation from the rest of the group."

"Certainly." Harry said with a smooth and subtle arrogance. "Dudley and his gang, as you know, have this game they call "Harry Hunting". It's an ingenious show of brilliance on their part actually. The beauty of the game lies in the fact that if I don't run, they beat me up. If I do, however, choose to run, and do not escape them, they still beat me up. Anyways, they were bored and decided the time was right for a game. I was forced to run blind, seeing as I had never been to London before in my life, in an attempt to get away. Unfortunately they caught up to me three blocks or so away, and Dudley grabbed me from behind. The next couple minutes are a blur, and I only remember being grabbed from behind and having a knife pressed to my throat."

"But how in heaven's name did you survive?" Stanley asked, enraptured in the tale of danger the young hero in front of him was weaving.

"I'll show you," Harry said, "That is of course if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all. Stanley said, getting to his feet. "What do you want me to do?"

"Stand behind me, yes, yes like that. Now, gripping my shoulder with your left hand, hold the mike as if were a knife to my throat with your right. Okay." Harry took it slowly, going through the now familiar motions of his escape from and subsequent assault of his temporary captor. Harry sat back down, explain how he'd dropped to the ground and used the man as a meat shield.

"How do you feel about the fact that you took the life of a man today Harry?"

"Suprisingly, not much, I suppose that may just be the after effects of shock though."

"Well, I have no further questions, so goodnight from everyone here at Channel 17. This has been Stanley Granger for Channel 17, goodnight England." Stanley walked offstage to thunderous applause. Harry slipped quietly through the gathered crowd, unnoticed, to go find Officer Thorne. He knew that after today's, as well as tonight's little performance his aunt would likely turn him over to the tender mercies of street life. So he needed somewhere to stay. However, Harry spied a really comfy couch and sat down. 'I'll rest my eyes for a little bit,' he thought, but he quickly fell asleep.

**AN/ For those who were confused as to why Vernon Dursley's attack on Harry was mentioned twice, it was a psychological trick enacted by Stanley to refocus attention on Harry and the story. By having Harry, who was already being sympathized with, recount the tale of his uncle's assault on him, he reignited the anger that the viewers already felt for Vernon Dursley while also taking attentions away from the recent breakdown. Also, the seemingly split personality in regards to Stanley is not a mistake, the first POV was the demon's, and the second Harry's.**


	6. Deja vu and Welcome to the New!

**AN**: It's been a long time, but I've managed to nail down a new laptop, a plethora of new ideas and a college career. For those of you who have waited, both patiently and not, I'd like to thank you for your dedication, and apologize for the wait. This chapter is partially beta'd, by RaidyRed, a talent who will no longer be with the story. And now, without further ado, **Déjà vu, and Welcome to the New!**

**Vamps HQ, London, England.**

A small boy, no older than 12 was handcuffed to a chair in one the most formidable offices in all of England. He was unconscious at the moment, his attempted assault on the headquarters of the infamous Vamps street gang having failed miserably. The office wasn't what one would expect from the boss of such a wealthy and influential criminal organization. It was spartan, with a simple, functionally sleek desk, chrome colored and polished to a shine. The floors were a basic wood paneling, and there were no bookcases, no filing cabinets, not even a desk phone. The only thing that made the office in anyway unusual was the sword on the wall behind the desk. With the barest of movements, the boy stirred, regaining consciousness, trying subtly to observe the room without moving his neck, exposed as his head sagged over the back of the chair. He caught a glimpse of the sword before the Boss arrived, causing him to relax, feigning unconsciousness.

The sheath was a work of art, appearing as though someone had turned a many-tongued gout of flame into pure iron. It was a sword with a long and bloody history. Crafted during the Catholic Church's reign at the center of the European world, the magic infused within it granted its wielder the power of the sun. The muggles of the Dark Ages believed it to be blessed by the Pope himself, not knowing that some wizards, clever and arrogant, had hidden themselves amongst the very persons who sought to eradicate them and were actually responsible for its construction. They created this sword, The Judgment, as their last resort, if their plan failed and they were ever discovered.

Martin Luther was their downfall. He knew nothing of them, nor this plot that they had conceived in order to remain at the top of the world. A small faction of wizards, a combination of muggleborns and purebloods and halfbloods, learned of this elite group of wizards who sat at the center of world and watched as their magical brethren were massacred. They used Martin to destabilize the powerbase that the Catholic wizards had so painstakingly crafted, knowing that they could not use magic without being persecuted. When they learned of the Judgment, and that these elite had planned to send one of their own masquerading as Jesus at the End of Days in order to maintain their crumbling grip on power, they planned to take The Judgment and destroy it.

When they arrived at the abbey where The Judgment was stored, they found it unguarded. But as they stepped into the room that contained it, they found that it was their tomb. Thirteen guards, fearsome creatures they'd never before encountered, killed four of them in an instant. The remaining seventeen tried valiantly to hold their own, but only one managed to accomplish their mission. Drawing The Judgment from its fiery sheath, the last wizard was nearly blinded by the explosion of light that it released, and as he stumbled in the darkness, something bit him before running off into the night.

That man spent the rest of his life tracking down the beast that bit him, cutting a bloody swathe through the last 500 years, and all of Vampire history.

"Bullshit," the kid barked out, raising his head to glare hatefully at the man who stood with his back to him, a smirk gracing his features as he reverently traced the flames of iron. The man turned, all smiles, to the boy in handcuffs, seemingly unconcerned with the interruption of his tale.

"It most certainly is not. I see that you are the nuisance that has been killing my new recruits," he said, seating himself imperiously. "The supposedly immortal child. You should consider it an honor that I, Vladimir IV, will be killing you personally." He smirked cruelly at the child's brief burst of fear. "Lieutenant, bite him please; I wish for this to be as painful as possible."

The lieutenant swaggered forward, yanking the child's head back by his hair, biting deeply into his right shoulder, deftly avoiding ripping muscle, as he hated the taste of shoulder. Faster than the lieutenant could blink, he'd been handcuffed to the chair and used as a springboard. The child, having already leapt forwards, pulled the last trick out of his sleeve, attempting to kill Vladimir with a small but powerful UV penlight. Vladimir laughed, slapping the child aside as though he were little more than an annoying insect.

"Did you hear none of my tale, child?" he disdained. "The Judgment grants me the power of the sun. By now you should be far enough along in the change to die by sunlight. That is one of my lieutenant's most useful abilities. A full conversion in under seven minutes. Your body betrays you, the adrenaline, the quick breaths, vasodilation. These only hasten the Change" Vladimir spoke in utterly calm manner, as though he were a teacher informing a curious student. Growling slightly at his lieutenant's incompetence, he grasped The Judgment in his left hand, lifting it from the wall. With the unconscious ceremonial manner of the naturally dramatic, he loomed over the child, his grin positively feral. He unsheathed The Judgment, her bright blade igniting the very air around her, creating a haunting miasma of white-hot fire. The corners of his mouth twitched up very slightly in a thin smile, his bloodlust tempered by the uncomfortable tingling of The Judgment's protections. He relaxed, basking in the warm sunlight, so assured did he feel of Harrison's destruction.

This was, of course, due to a failsafe that the magicians had built into the vampiric race in order to ensure their complete and continued subservience. Vampires, from the moment they contract vampirism, are deathly allergic to UV radiation, due to the complete lack of pigmentation in their skin, originally meant to aid in their transportation to the various strongholds held and maintained by the Catholic wizards. This allowed them to be transported as dead bodies, of which far less meticulous travel and other records would be taken. As such, when Judgment, a sword which emits high levels of UV radiation, is used near them, their unpigmented skin will literally burn, killing them. Vladimir began to feel the semi-familiar tingle that precedes a full combustion and sheathed Judgment, well aware that any newborn vampire would be both helpless to move and much more UV-sensitive than an aged one. While he was considered a Daywalker by his kind, The Judgment strained his healing factor with the intensity of its flame. Walking over to the child's slightly smoking carcass, he delivered a hard shove with his foot, rolling the child onto his back.

"Heh." Vladimir flinched as the child opened its two-tone eyes, the eye-patch it had previously worn, along with most of the rest of its clothing having been burned away. Oddly enough, his hair was still all there "Surprised?" he said, his voice barely audible. Any further comments were suppressed as he began to cough violently, the force of which cracked and broke his own ribs.

"Quite. I'll admit this is unprecedented, but Vladimir Tepes IV does not give in easily." Before the child had time to think, Vladimir's foot smashed into the side of his head, rendering him unconscious.

_It's fucking freezing. _That was my first clear thought.

'Don't talk like that, Harrison.'

_But it is, Mother._

'Must you whine like that?'

_Ugh. Where are we anyway?_

'I don't know.'

_Last I remember, we were at the Tepes Family Barbeque._

'Juvenile humor aside, we're not dead yet.'

The pervasive chill in the damp air grew colder, baring its teeth into my near-nakedness.

_At least I have my boxers. Which are damn hard to find in my size for some stupid reason._

'Don't panic. While this is mostly based off the fact that you haven't moved or even tried to, I'm pretty sure you've been drugged.'

Great.

I stand shakily, nearly collapsing when a great shuddering breath claws at the freezing air; a black cloak sweeps into view, occupied by a rotting corpse. Suddenly all I can think about is blood, even as I hear my mother vaguely shouting something in what I think is Latin. I don't know what's going on, my head's a jumble of different thoughts and emotions; I feel crowded somehow, like there's too much stuff in too little space. I feel a massive pressure, as though I'm a collapsing star, folding down to some infinitesimally small point. With a pop it's gone. I've fallen and I can't get up; leaden limbs laying listless.

There's an odd groaning noise, like a mechanical yawn, as I black out for the third time in as many hours.

In a semi-conscious state, I hear murmurs, doctor this, doctor that, shattered psyche, multiple personalities and psychic signatures, massive memory loss, oddity. 'Good thing he left himself a note, we'll drop him off early, avoid all that pesky bigger-on-the-inside business.' I keep wondering who the hell these people are, like a mantra or something. I feel so tired, too tired; there's that sound again, like a thwump mixed with a vroom, and before I know it…

I don't know where I am, but I wake up very strangely. The time is 7:42:42. I have a trunk. I think it's mine, but I can't remember.For all I know I was born here, my head full of stuff, but lacking, empty. I am not old. I am eleven years, 1 month, a day, and some span of hours and minutes. I am early. But what for?

I open the trunk, which I hope is mine. There are books here, schoolbooks. Though that's rather debatable, given that the first one is called _1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi_. To my knowledge, magic doesn't exist. Yet clearly there is a school, perhaps an entire society that believes that it does. I read them. The time is 7:47:59. They're almost here. Friends.

From their content, diction, and pacing, these books are introductory. There should be a wand around here somewhere. Wondering how I know that left me with a slight headache. I do not find one in the trunk. So I search my pockets. I find one. Something calls out to me. _**Psychic echo**_, my mind supplies. _**Hybridized. Dormant**_. I hold it reverently, eleven inches, holly. _**Phoenix feather, curious. Brother wand, scar. 13 inches, yew. Terrible yes, but great.**_ That tingling, the growing sense of buzzing in my head I've had since I awoke is pulsing now. Stronger and stronger. It stops. Then the pain comes.

I drop the wand, but it's too late. A scar, physical and psychic, rips open, as fresh as the day it was made. Slowly and deliberately, millimeters at a time, as a psychic tendril claws its way out. Not an echo, nor an imprint, no. Something greater and more terrible, stronger and more potent. I can feel nothing else from my body, my entire world shrunk to the few centimeters above my brow. I strain to feel the echo from before. I do not know this echo, and yet I trust it completely and invariably. I push harder, even as every struggle tears the scar more, giving the tendril greater hold.

I am tiring fast. This is my final stand. I steel my resolve. I will **not** die here. I will **not **be destroyed. I will **not **fall. For I am The- the psychic echo flares. As my consciousness recedes, I feel broken, some part of a whole, disjointed and disjunct.

I don't know where I am, but I wake up very strangely,

All around is black and dark, I'm floating oddly, gangly.

They sound, those drums, so very far away,

Yet all the while, while here I stay

Closer still and closer yet they bray,

Ever louder, ever greater, as even more join in the fray.

And all they ever, ever play are those infernal beats of four,

My thoughts, lucidity, are drowned in drums of war;

Those beats of four,

The drums of war,

Resound so deeply in my core,

That every thought and every action has them surging to the fore,

Those infernal beats of four,

From my internal drums of war.

Sudden Swift Silence. But not solidarity.

"Where am I? Who am I? Who the hell are you?"

"Harrison James Potter! How dare you speak to me like that! I am your mother, and you will treat me with respect."

"Sorry," I say sheepishly. "Where are we?"

"We're in your mind."

"Oh. Okay. Why?"

"Psychic backlash overloaded your conscious state." A new voice, old and ancient, yet as fresh and naïve as any newborn, a voice of power, humility battling inborn arrogance. Prideful, yet deserving. "We've brought you here to wait it out."

"Shouldn't I at least have a mindscape or something?" I ask.

"You would, but mindscapes are built on memories and sentiments. As you have lost your memory, you are likewise devoid of a mindscape."

"Oh. So how do I know that you do not intend to harm me?"

"You do not. Unfortunately, your psyche cannot handle the knowledge of our presence. You will not remember us."

"Wha-? No! You can't-"

"**WAKE**"

I don't know where I am, but I wake up very strangely. The time is 8:10:27. They will be here soon. My forehead hurts something awful, but I feel calm. I sit up and open my eyes. Well, I try. The right is caked in blood, the left covered by an eye-patch. I don't have any water, so I gently scrape bloody flakes from my right eye until it can open. The time is 8:12:00. I need to clean up. I head off to the bathroom, idly wondering how I know where it is before dismissing it as unimportant.

I stared deeply into the mirror, trying to memorize the details of my new-old face. Hair: Shaggy, reddish black, down to mid-back. Eyes: The left is black with red scalera. The right is emerald green, white scalera. General Complexion: Pale. Jagged scar above right eye, a straight-line scar over the left, perpendicular to the hairline and terminating at the jaw. Overall Appearance: Off-putting, but beyond cool. Something it appears I have capitalized on, if the black cargo pants, trench coat and boots are anything to go by.

I exit the bathroom, striding across the platform to the family of three that has gathered around my trunk.

"Hello Hermione." The child whirls around, pulling knives up in an offensive stance. I kick out as I flip upward, striking out at her loose grip and sending one of the knives skit-clattering across the flagstones. In mid-air I throw down a wave of shuriken, forcing her to dive forward to the right, trying to move the fight away from who I assume are her parents. In that interval, I land, facing her and bringing up my own pair of knives, Zaraki, my mind supplies. The blades are dented and nicked beyond repair.

_Interlude: Parental Perspective Pertaining Precocious Pugnacity_

Daniel Granger silently handed his wife a twenty pound note, which she pocketed smugly. Hoping to recoup some of his losses, he bet a tenner that Harry would win, a bet that Emma took, in some part due to her maternal pride. Feeling a little argumentative and rather self-deprecating, Emma remarks that Daniel is currently doing some pretty piss poor parenting.

"I suppose you'd prefer I maim myself attempting to stop them?" He retorts hotly.

"Of course not, but you don't have to encourage her by letting her wear her weapons all the time." Emma says with a distinct air of calm.

"You know just as well as I that it is for her own security and essentially the only reason we were allowed to drop her off alone." Daniel says, dodging a stray shuriken instinctually, losing his balance in the process.

"You know I do, dear, but I worry." Emma sighs

"Just as any proper parent should," He huffed, picking himself up. "Would you change how it's turned out?"

"Not even for the world." She spoke in a whisper now, more to herself. "I remember the first time we met Harry…"

_Four Years Ago_

_A somewhat nondescript car pulled up to a slightly well-off house. A rather famous man got out, and retrieved a living legend from the back. Hurrying to the door of the house, he knocked. A somewhat disgruntled and slightly disheveled woman in her thirties answered a mite huffily._

"_Stanley, do you know what bloody time it is?" she hissed. Before he'd even fully opened his mouth to answer cheekily, she interjected. "Choose your next words very, very carefully." He stopped, closed his mouth, and then opened it again._

"_I'm calling it in." Her eyes narrowed, frizzed hair crackling with electricity. She opened the door and turned to enter the living room, her pajamas and fuzzy slippers doing nothing to dissipate the increased tension._

"_Keep it down, Hermione's asleep." Emma lashed, settling herself into one of the armchairs on the left hand side of the fireplace, opposite the couch. She gestured to the bar on the far side of the living room, silently and somewhat sullenly inviting Stanley to have a drink. Having closed her eyes in an effort to collect and prepare herself for whatever ungodly reason he had of calling the favor at this time of night, Emma was unpleasantly surprised when she opened them to find a very recognizable seven-year-old had been deposited on her couch._

"_Explain now," she ground out, eyes flashing._

"_He was passed out in the lobby and I was the only one left who wasn't on shift, so he kinda got dumped on me. I don't know a whole lot about proper childcare, much less abuse cases, and I won't be able to find time for him. You're the first and only person who came to mind." Stanley rushed, tired, stressed, and very, very nervous._

"_How long?" She asked, sighing tiredly._

"_I don't know. His relatives are in holding on charges, and it doesn't feel right to just leave him to wake up in an orphanage." He said, slumping down into the armchair next to Emma's. His eyes still held a spark of nervousness in them as he waited for Emma to respond._

"_You understand this means that we owe you nothing?" Emma said pointedly. Stanley nodded sluggishly, already beginning to doze off. "Put him in the guestroom, I've got things to arrange."_

_**Dreaming:**_

_I don't know what I'm running from, or where I'm running to. But I do know where I'm going. Right tunnel, left tunnel, middle fork, down; third right, last left, keep straight, down. I'm going down. Because something's wrong. Something's very, very wrong. Right! No, not right, right! Oh, right. Turn, down._

_It's still behind me, closer yet and closer still, _

_Closing in upon its kill._

_As I reach the bottom of the stair, _

_I fall into a deep despair,_

_A dead end!_

_I'm going to die in a dead end!_

_Oh what a way to go my friend._

_I turn around and there he is,_

_A fearsome thing, those eyes of his._

_I step back, I trip and fall,_

_I guess I'm dying at a crawl._

_He doesn't move, he doesn't breathe,_

_He's nothing to prove as he looks through me._

_I scuttle back with haste,_

_A bit more life is not to waste._

_Suddenly a door springs up,_

_Sealing fast and staying shut._

_Letting loose a morbid laugh,_

_A bitter more 'til I breathe my last._

_The dead end opens in a blast of air that's burning hot and biting cold,_

_I stand, stumbling, shivering, frail and bold._

_Across the pane of glass, I see,_

_A little boy who's just like me._

_He stands up slow and gingerly,_

_Steps tremble determinedly._

_His eyes snap open, blacker than black,_

_In gold sclera, green glints back._

_A mighty crash and awful shout:_

_Let me, let me, LET ME OUT!_

_Harry awoke, jittery and cold, scared and anxious, feeling crushed. While still panicked and addled from sleep, he panicked further, lashing out, fell out of bed without a shout, just a painful, pitiful thwump, face-first into shag. Picking himself up, he looked around, "Where am I?" he asked aloud. He looked at the bedside table that he'd thankfully not hit, and spied a piece of paper resting daintily on it. He didn't struggle much to read it, just to comprehend, since there were no chores on it, why it was addressed to him._

_**Letter**_

_ Dear Harry,_

_My name is Emma Granger and this is my house. You are currently in the guest bedroom and will be staying with us for a while. The picture on the table, (here Harry looked up) is of my family. My daughter is named Hermione, and my husband is Daniel Granger. I'll be staying home to help you get settled in and probably won't wake until seven. The loo is right across the hall if you need it._

_ Good Morning,_

_ Emma Granger_

_Harry tilted his head to the side in confusion, unsure of what to do. An older lady's voice, bright and happy and a little sad, seemed to whisper from all around him._

'Go to the loo and take a shower sweetie.'

"_Who said that?" Harry said, on edge in an instant, glancing around and eyeing the window in particular._

'It's just me Prongslet, don't be afraid.'

"_B-but who are y-you?" he asked in a whisper to faint to be heard, backing away from the window and falling when he unexpectedly bumped into the wall. The voice took some time to respond, during which Harry felt sad. He wasn't sad, but he felt it vaguely, as though it wasn't his feeling._

'I suppose it was too much to hope that you might remember me,' _the voice said suddenly, startling Harry enough to make him cry out. _'I am Lily. I am your protector. I am your mother.'

_Harry was silent for some time after this, but he was not afraid. He thought, nearly lulled back into sleep by some vague feeling he couldn't name. He thought of the bad times, of the Dursleys, of the beatings, the nights of hunger, the looks of disgust, the taunts and the tears. The tears, hot and wet, the glistening drops of shame, and the tears he reined in with a will of steel, the one thing he had any control over. He remembered the first and final time he ever asked about his parents. _

"_Your mother was an unholy demon," Aunt Petunia had spat. "She got herself pregnant with you," she said striking him across the face, sending him flying into the wall, "Then she died, leaving us with nothing." She strode over to Harry, dragging him by his hair to his cupboard. "Stand up, nothing." She spat literally this time, glaring contemptuously. "Do you want to know about your father?" Desperate, Harry nodded slowly, mindful of his neck. Petunia knelt beside him, suddenly grabbing his privates in a vise grip. "Your father was a prick." She squeezed harder, intending to make him cry. But he never did, and she couldn't go too far, or he'd have to go to the hospital. Still, Harry was sore for weeks afterward and never asked again._

_Jolted out of his reverie by phantom pains, Harry found that he was angry, tense with fury. 'You can't be my protector.' He said, his voice hollow. 'Protectors protect, right? So where you when I needed you?' He asked. 'WHERE WERE YOU?!' He screamed, ripping the left side of face open again._

'I was always with you darl-'

'_Show me one time.' _

'You're not going to-'

'_You were never there for me.' He whispered in anger. 'Never.'_

_The sense of sadness Harry had felt snapped like a sheet of ice, never loud, but echoing impending danger. _'You will have your proof.' _When she spoke, it was with frostfire, the burning cold, the sudden shock of being submerged in ice._

"_**Pathetic," hell-red eyes looked down in disappointment, "Weak," Harry watched as Voldemort gleefully sliced deeply into Lily's forearm, daubing the quickly cooling blood onto his spidery fingers, throwing her body aside with all the effort of swatting a pest. With inhuman speed, he drew a pentagram on the floor in front of Harry's crib. He walked to the crib with all the nonchalance of taking an evening stroll, pausing only to vanish his trailing cloak and being careful not to smear the blood. Harry watched helplessly as his younger self was held in the blood-soaked hands of his mother's killer. He lay impotent, trembling as his own shrill shrieks echoed in his ears. When he saw himself gushing blood from a familiar scar, he curled into himself, crying for the first time in three years, choking out cries for mummy between wretched sobs, until there was nothing more than hysterical, soundless screams.**_

_Woeful Wake-up_

_Her peaceful sleep is shattered. Snapping up and falling out of bed, she ran towards the source of the noise. Stopping awkwardly outside the guestroom, shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline, she knocked tentatively. She heard something again, a burst bravely into the room and coming up short. There, slumped against the wall, was a boy, his mismatched eyes staring at nothing and everything all at once, his whole body unmoving save the tears cascading down his face, mixing with the blood slowly leaking from his reopened wound. She became vaguely aware of someone screaming, before everything went dim and hazy._

"I know the rest." Dan interrupts. "We took him in for a bit, he up and left after a few months, we see him off and on for the next three and a half years. Now can we watch the spar?"

She spins to face me, drawing a katana she doesn't appear to have space for. I keep my Zaraki in a reverse grip, eyeing her warily. I feel a rather local surge in telekinetic energy levels, my visible eye widening slightly. The shuriken I'd thrown rose behind me, visibly unassisted. I charge her, switching grips and making a wide downward slash, forcing the katana down as I spin left to avoid the knife she still holds in her left hand. Pivoting on the ball of my right foot, I turn the kinetic energy of my spin into a devastating kick that impacted the back of her left knee, forcing her into an awkward and painful kneel. I smirk as she realizes that the shuriken would take the shortest path to me, which happens to be right through her.

"Do you yield?" I ask, both Zaraki returned to a reverse grip, their uneven teeth lightly biting into her jugulars, her neck trapped in a diamond-shaped noose. She does not reply verbally, instead dropping her katana and remaining knife. Carefully returning my Zaraki to their holsters, I stoop to pick up my shuriken, moving my hair to cover the jagged lightning scar, which throbs, feeling red and raw, stark against my pale features.

"Where did you draw your sword from?" I ask, knowing somehow that she would be utterly distracted. It works beautifully as she spouts on about how she'd gotten a specially made pouch, layered with expansion and featherlight charms, to store it in. By the time she is done it is 8:29:30. By this time we have already said goodbye to her parents, been scolded for fighting in public and nearly hitting Daniel, and moved into a compartment, even though the train won't be leaving for another two-and-a-half-hours.

"How was your summer, Harry? Anything exciting?"

"I wouldn't remember," I reply. "I have amnesia."

"What the bloody hell did you do this time?"

"This has happened before? Interesting. Well, I'll be asleep. Please don't wake me up until the train departs at eleven." With that, I succumb to my exhaustion, blacking out.

_I fucking hate when he does that, _Hermione thinks. _Oh hey, I'll just scare you half to death, win the impromptu fight that occurs because of the instincts I made you develop, then pass out without even caring that maybe Hermione might want to talk and catch up like normal friends. Or maybe even talk about why you have amnesia. Again. _Eye twitching angrily, Hermione pulls out _Hogwarts: A History _and continues sketching out plans for what will hopefully be an effective alteration to the boil-cure potion. _I doubt he'll win so easily next time._

Hermione's current odd hobby of creating variations on potions is interrupted by a knock at the compartment door. Glancing up, she sees a nervous blonde smiling at her. Sighing before waving her in, she puts her book away, annoyed that she isn't likely to be able to get much work done for a while.

_Unconsciousness_

Black. I don't like it, and I feel bodiless. A burst of flame surprises me, taking the shape of a swan or at least something similar. We regard each other, not as enemies, but, for some weird reason, partners. Something clicks. "You're the psychic echo!" I exclaim, rather astonished.

"That is what you call me," it replies. "I would prefer an actual name."

"We should get to know each other more," I say unthinkingly. It laughs, amused.

"I already know you. Yet it seems that you have forgotten me. No matter, you shall simply **REMEMBER**."

A wand swishes through the dry, dusty air, heavy with psionic energy, laden with centuries of importance and tradition. How many journeys have started here? How many legends took their first timid steps? Eleven inches of holly resonate with the joy of their core, a shower of sparks, red and gold, warm with the fire of life burst forth. My first steps are glorious.

"Phoenix. A creature of fire and air, associated with light, healing, rebirth, and loyalty. Yet you have chosen me, scarred as I am, and if I am correct, skilled in, at the least, armed combat, often engaged in such, and am likely a killer. Why?"

"Because, though you do not remember, you chose the higher path when you did not have to. You, raised in the fires of hatred and pain, showed compassion and mercy to your abusers. You learned the arts of combat to strike down the evil, the beasts of blood and moon. You do not kill them blindly, nor do you never kill, falsely believing that they can be redeemed. You are just unto your own laws, and those laws are just unto themselves. A phoenix is a bird of prey; they always forget that."

"I will trust that you speak truth, Phoenix. However, alliances of power are not without trade. What are your terms?"

"Hn. You are a shrewd one." The phoenix smiles. "My terms are simple. I will kill only in defense of life and freedom. I will not be subjugated to your will. I **will** have days off."

"Acceptable." There is no need to consider these terms, they is quite fair. "Shall we name you now?"

"Soon. First, a small test. In what spell fields will I be strong, and in which will I be weak?" I think for a while, relishing in the challenge.

"As a phoenix, your natural abilities are healing tears, enhanced strength, fire-based teleportation, and regeneration. Offensively, you will be strongest in light and fire based spells. In Defense and Support, you will be strongest in healing and teleportation fields. Your weaknesses would lie in spells meant to harm and destroy, as well as transfigurations."

"So close," the phoenix says, shaking its head sadly. "Time's up. Maybe we'll talk later."

"Goodbye, Phoenix," I say, before waking.

"The time is 10:55:58," I mumble drowsily, swinging myself up into a proper sitting position. I notice someone new in the compartment. "Hello. Who are you?"

"Hannah Abbot," she says, offering her hand forward. I take it, smiling warmly.

"Potter. Harrison Potter," I reply. She tenses, startled.

"You're dead," she says. I almost take it for a threat but notice that her tone is one of shock, not malice or indifference. I laugh, the scar that graces the left side of my face shifting disturbingly. I laugh harder when she jumps back, before stopping abruptly.

"Sorry," I say. "Didn't mean to scare you. It's just that, um, as you can see, I'm very much not dead." I laugh nervously, causing Hannah to flinch again. _I don't know why I'm nervous. Maybe it's because I literally can't remember how to interact with people properly, much less ones my own age. Or perhaps it's because everything else that's happened today was so weird, that when suddenly faced with a 'normal' situation, I don't know what to do. Either way, I'm overanalyzing. Just apologize and wait._ "Sorry, sorry," I say. Hannah composes herself, and seems like she'll be awhile. Hopefully her coming to terms with a 'dead' person being in the compartment won't take too long. With that, the train starts off with a lurch.

"How many spells have you-?"

**Unconsciousness**

White. Well that's different. I wonder what's going on this time.

"Hello, um, I'm afraid I don't know your name and you not really in a state to answer are you?" the voice chuckles before seeming to get serious. "Listen closely, I can only say this once. You've recently undergone a very traumatic experience, and due to the unique nature of your psyche, that is, everything that makes up who you are and how you see yourself, you'll probably experience these symptoms in the next 24 hours or so. Like I said it's unique and complex and I'm mostly guessing, but I'm a very good guesser. Are you listening? Here's the list of potential symptoms: You will be swinging between super rational and completely unhinged, you will experience short-term memory loss, aggressiveness, fatigue, random personality switches, which resemble a temporary bout of Multiple Personality Disorder essentially, random short term recall of facts that you knew pre-incident, and the unconscious use of telepathy and telekinesis. For yours and other's safety, I recommend that you stay away from sharp pointy objects and anything fragile. Oh, silly me nearly forgot, random fainting spells will also occur, this is one now, I know because it was the trigger for this message. It was most helpful that you left yourself a note on where and when to be, hope you didn't wake up too confused. I'm still not sure how you called me, not many people can do that, you know, send me messages."

"KAAAAAAAHN!" I shout, my head whipping up from where it had lolled when I passed out. Hannah about wets herself, while Hermione flinches, one hand discreetly on a hidden knife. "You!" I cry, brandishing my entire arm at Hannah, "You didn't answer my question. That's very, very rude. I'm hurt." I drop my arm to my side, and it's suddenly fascinating. Blood's all swooshy-wooshy in there, but I can't hear it. Maybe if it was closer I'd hear it…

Blinking owlishly, I notice something off about my wrists. "Hannah honey, why am I in my pink fuzzy cuffs?" When she starts to answer stammering, I interrupt her with a roughish grin, or at least that's what I was going for. "Have I been naughty?" My face lights up like a kid's on Christmas, I lean in quite close, whispering into her ear, "Are you going to punish me?" She blushes so hard I'm impressed she's still conscious. Licking her ear soundly, I yawn before sitting back and suddenly feeling drowsy. "That's right Hannah, you did like it, even though it was weird. But no, I'm actually quite available at the moment." Suddenly I felt very awake. "You never answered my question. How many spells have you learned?"

Hannah must be in some heavy shock or something, because she answers rather rationally, all things considered. "I know the basic theory of most of them, and have actually performed the levitation and lighting charms."

"I've memorized the textbooks, but haven't tried any spells yet." I respond, trying to coax a conversation out of her.

"You have amnesia," Hermione interjects hotly.

"Yeah. I reread."

"You're lying."

"Am not, Whiney 'Mione." Her eye twitches dangerously.

"Are you on drugs?"

"Not that I know of. But seriously, cuffs?" I ask, waving my hands for emphasis.

"You tried to cut your arm open." She says frankly. "Something about wooshy."

"He did say I'd be swinging along the spectrum of super-sane to insane. I suppose that was more insane." I reply sheepishly.

"Who did?" Hannah and Hermione ask in unison.

"The doctor. The doctor in my head." I answer honestly. "Well that doesn't sound very sane now does it?"

"No, no it doesn't." They say again.

"Anyways, according to him, I experienced an intense trauma and due to my unique, which I think is a very nice way of saying fragile, psyche, it induced a full memory suppression in order to retain a semblance of working order. Since I appear to be in a bout of sanity at the moment, I'd like to apologize for my earlier and future bouts of insanity, ask that you try to withhold your judgments of me until tomorrow, as the doctor said this would only be a 24-hour experience."

"Too late," Hermione replies. "But I'll help you. Just remember this clears one of my debts."

"Sure. Hannah?"

"Th-this is a lot t-to process." She says, shaking a bit with nervousness.

"Let's leave her to herself," Hermione suggests. "There is no way you reread every single book."

"I did too."

"Prove it then."

"Fine."

**Tread With Care**, author unknown

Devil's Snare, Devil's Snare,

In the damp and dark and wet,

There it makes its deadly lair,

Waits for prey that forget

Its weakness, nay, its blight,

That it only loves the dark and damp

Because it fears the light.

Once you're caught in earthy clamp,

Do not struggle, do not thrash,

For Demon's Hair will tangle, tangle,

Bind tight with iron, sting with lash,

String you up, left to dangle

In the dark and

The damp and

Cold and

Wet.

So take care,

For Demon's Hair

Wants you to forget.

I smirk, knowing my recitation was flawless. Hermione narrows her eyes, and I can almost see her mind whirring as she remembers that the poem had been in the appendix, referenced in a footnote that in turn was referenced as an afterthought, in a self-enrichment section that was unnecessary for the actual Herbology course.

"This proves nothing." She huffs, returning to Hogwarts: A History.

Hannah speaks timidly. "Um, Harry?" She continues when she has my full attention. "I'll wait 'til tomorrow. I'd like to be friends if you don't mind."

"Thanks. How was your summer?"

"It was good. Susan and I were ecstatic when our letters came."

"Who's Susan?" I ask

"Susan Bones. She's an old friend. I'm surprised she hasn't found me by now." Hannah says.

"Maybe she thought you'd find her," I posit. There was a knock at the door before it slid open.

"Anything off the trolley dears?" Hannah requests a Chocolate Frog and some Drooble's. She stands to pay, but I wave her off.

"Might I also get three butterbeers and your entire stock of Blood Pops?"

"I'm sorry dear, but I'm not allowed to sell out my entire stock."

I frown. "How about one box now, and whatever's left in stock when you're done?"

"That's acceptable." She says. Hermione emerges from her book, asks for some Bertie Bott's, and glares at me. I buy those as well. Smiling at the trolley witch as she leaves, I pass Hermione her beans and a butterbeer. I give Hannah her things, and settle back into my seat with the Blood Pops in my lap.

"Hermione darling, would you join us?" I ask, pulling the cork out of my butterbeer. She glares rather menacingly from over the top of the rather hefty volume she held.

"Call me that again and I'll kill you," she hisses, her voice a hairsbreadth above a whisper. Hannah's hand twitches towards her wand. Hermione calmly sets the book between herself and Hannah. "And put your candy away, you know I can't stand the smell of blood." She snaps, her voice returning to its normal bossy self.

"No I don't," I say cheekily

"YES YOU BLOODY WELL-" Her eye twitches as she remembers my memory's current state. "Just put it away."

"Yes dear." I reply, dodging the playful punch with practiced ease. I get down my trunk, setting it between all of us like a table before opening it up. Since I want to practice some spells I set aside _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, _and _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection._ Finding a box slightly larger than the box of Blood Pops I'd bought and engraved Blood Pops, I pull it out. Opening it, it's painfully clear that the space had been expanded, as I can't see the bottom. Carefully transferring the delicious candy, I pull a handful of them out before closing the lid and placing it back into the trunk.

"Sorry about that," I say, smiling at Hannah. "She gets cranky when her reading is interrupted." Hannah just nods. "How about some magic?" I ask, taking a swig of my butterbeer before placing it next to the books I'd pulled out.

"I'm only comfortable with Lumos," she says nervously.

"Go ahead." I reply, smiling encouragingly. She takes a deep breath, centering herself.

"_Lumos_!" a small ball of light, about the size of a marble and glowing steadily gave of a pleasant glow. "Hermione?" she asks, her light wavering at the loss of focus.

She pulls her wand out and speaks forcefully. A light similar to Hannah's but brighter winks into existence.

"I suppose it's my turn?" receiving nods, I grasp my own wand, feeling the calming thrum of Phoenix. He seems rather excited. "_Lumos_!" I cry. A blinding light the size of a baseball exploded out of my wand. Blinded, I screech "MAKE IT STOP! HOW DO I-"

"NOX! NOX!" They shout frantically.

I whisper "_Nox._", and the light vanishes. We spend the next few minutes blinking the spots out of our eyes. When we'd recovered, Hannah was looking at me in a mixture of fear, awe, and respect. I suddenly feel extremely tired and slump forward, nearly spilling my butterbeer.

**Unconsciousness**

"I swear to motherfucking God if I've passed out again-"

"You have." Phoenix replies.

"Great. This is just bloody wonderful. You better start explaining."

"Actually, I would be more suited to that task." It's that voice again, ancient and new. "What you believe is magic is actually a mish-mash of psychic energies. As such, with your psyche in such a state of flux, your control of your magic is non-existent. Luckily, in this instance you overextended yourself, pouring far more magic than necessary into that spell. Even luckier, it was simply a light spell. Had you been casting a flame spell, or god forbid attempting transfiguration..."

"I see. Anything else?"

"This will likely induce a bout of insanity. Good luck."

I jerk back awake, noticing that I'd been moved into a sitting position.

"Does anyone else feel really hyper? No? Well I'll be back in a bit." With that, I'm out the window and running across the top of the Express before either of them can reply. Hannah turns to Hermione, who shrugs. Hannah gets up and closes the window.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," she says unconvincingly.

**With Harry**

I've been free-running for a few minutes now, and I'm almost to the front of the train. Unfortunately, the train is about to enter a tunnel. Like one of those, goes under a mountain and super-tight tunnels that'll smear you. This is gonna be suh-weet. It feels like it's been about ten minutes of staying ahead of the entrance when I suddenly snap back into sanity, which causes me to lose balance. Scrambling back to my feet before I get crushed between the train and the tunnel, I sprint over the top of the train. Noting that it's way too dangerous to try and land on one of the couplings and use the door, I swing myself over the edge and through a compartment window, rolling across the floor, through that compartment's door and the one across from it.

Picking myself up, I shake off the shards of glass and begin picking out the fragments that got embedded as I walk back to my compartment. Lucky for me, both compartments were occupied by students that were more immediately concerned with getting clothes back on than figuring out who or what just crashed through their compartment. The surrounding compartments appear tinted, and since no one has poked their head out to investigate the noise, probably soundproofed as well. I'm through to the next car before anyone's got a look at me.

**With Hermione**

"How long have you known Harry then? You seem rather calm about this." Hannah says.

"If anyone's calm, it's you," Hermione replies. "I've known Harry since I was seven, what's your excuse?"

"I took a Calming Draught this morning. My parents insisted." Hannah whispers, her body starting to tremble visibly. "I-I think it's w-wearing off." She continues, her breath becoming rapid and shallow. She looks at Hermione, her vision blurred with tears. "Wha-wha's h-happening to me?" she chokes out before she falls limp.

Hermione is very confused, but manages to keep it together. She's digging through Harry's trunk when Hannah comes around ten minutes later. She'd been looking for his potions kit to see if he'd brewed anything that might be helpful, but the only potion he'd had was a decent attempt at the boil-cure. When she saw Hannah start to stir she was attending to her immediately, telling her to sit up slowly, asking how she felt, whether she was hungry or thirsty, and re-packing Harry's trunk once she was sure Hannah was alright.

**With Harry**

When I walk back into our compartment, Hannah's asleep and Hermione's on edge, reading _Magical Drafts and Potions_ with a vengeance. I sit myself down quietly, quickly chugging the rest of my butterbeer to alleviate my parched throat.

"Where the hell have you been?" Hermione snaps suddenly, slamming the book shut in frustration.

"Out," I reply shortly. Noting that she's in a mood, I try to backpedal, tossing out a scrabbling thank you before asking what happened.

"Hannah's Calming Draught wore off." She lashes hotly.

"That explains a lot." I say quietly. "I assume it didn't go too well?"

"If you call a breakdown that ended in hysterics and fainting out not going too bloody well then yeah, it didn't go too well." She snarls.

"Is there anything I can do?" she's just about to reply when the compartment door opens. The most pale-haired person I'd ever seen stands flanked by two heavier, dark-haired children. Judging by the unmarked, high quality robes they wore, I deduce that they are all wealthy first-years and likely wizard-raised. Where the flankers had flinched, the blond was unsurprised at the sight of my visage. Which meant he knew me. I smile, waving him in and causing the heavy children to flinch again.

He comes in all smiles. "Hello again Harry, Hannah," he says, nodding to us in turn, despite the fact that Hannah was out like a light. _Definitely wizard-raised._ I think, the slight undercurrent of power and prestige in his inflection indicating he's likely pureblooded as well. He turns to Hermione, extending his right hand in greeting. "Draco Malfoy, fellow first year. Pleased to meet you."

"Hermione Granger; likewise." She replies, shaking his hand firmly.

One of Malfoy's grunts grunts. "Mudblood." He spits it out like it were poison, the harsh whisper laced with venom. I tense on instinct as Hermione's eyes darken.

"What," she hisses, her voice cutting cold "did you just call me?" Her eyes flaring in fury. Draco, who had turned around at the insult, stumbles forward but falls back as Hermione unconsciously looses an oppressive telekinetic field, knocking my books to the floor. Hannah shivers in her sleep.

Somehow unaware of the rising tension, the fool blunders on, witlessly risking his continued health and safety. "You heard me," He menaces, stepping forward. "Mudbloo-" I react on instinct. The kid trips back and falls to the ground, clutching at a shallow gash across the right side of his abdomen. The other child shouts something like Krebs before dashing off towards the front of the train, presumably for help.

"Put that the fuck away," I condescend with a sudden anger, removing my hand from the zaraki she'd unsheathed. _Sleep,_ I think, rendering the injured one incapacitated. "Hand everything else over." I say, the anger leaving me in a rush. When she hesitates, I command "**Now**." She quickly removes no less than seven different holsters from her person. "I'll hold onto these until you're in a position to have them back." I say, stowing them in my trunk.

Her oppressive telekinesis is starting to show negative effects. Hannah's lips are bloodless, and Draco's sprawled as though under great pressure. I release a countering pressure, shattering Hermione's. Draco's body relaxes, and Hermione's eyes refocus, though she still looks a little dazed.

"They'll confiscate this," I say, tossing her the zaraki she'd used, starting to panic. "You'll be given no less than one detention; you will be given a stern warning; you will be closely monitored. If," I stress, "You're lucky."

The door slides open with a bang. A red-head, confident and a little smug, done up in red and gold and glowering steps in, a girl about his age in blue and bronze is outside trying to wake up Creeps. All at once the glowering stops as he regards us coolly, his eyes hard and flinty.

"Sit." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it resounds like the bellows of a Frost Giant across the rolling tundra. Draco clambers awkwardly into the window seat next to Hermione, his movements shaky as he shrinks himself into the corner. Behind him, Craps had come around, and the girl is kneeling beside him, waving her wand over his wound while muttering to herself. The tang of blood sneaks into my nostrils, sharp and metallic, hot and wet, but tainted somehow, weak. I crush my Blood Pop violently between my teeth, grabbing another from my pocket as I tremble with the effort of keeping my face blank.

"Names." He says, directing his attention to me.

"Potter, Harrison." He nods, showing no surprise, marking it down on a memo pad I hadn't seen him pull out.

"Malfoy, Draco."

"Granger, Hermione."

"Who's she?" he asks, gesturing towards Hannah, who was still asleep.

"Abbot, Hannah," I reply, "Should I wake her?"

"Do so and escort her to Prefect Clearwater in the hall." He turns to address Draco and Hermione more directly while I nudged a drowsy Hannah ahead of me as we squeeze past him. "You may address me as sir or Prefect. My name is Percival Ignatius Weasley." He pauses, eyeing the trunk and the scattered books. I'm tense as I return to my seat, knowing that he could just open the trunk and find the hastily hidden cache of weapons. "Interviews will be conducted separately, Mr. Malfoy will be first. The both of you out." Hermione and I move out into the hall quickly and quietly. Krebs flinches, smacking his head into the wall. The prefect stands, placing herself between us, regarding me suspiciously.

"Hello Miss Prefect. Penelope was it?" I ask, cocking my head curiously. "How are you today?"

"Unhappy," she replies, regarding me incredulously.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to help?"

"Not slashing open students would be a nice start." She says, frowning now.

"I didn't slash anybody open today," I say, throwing my hands up defensively. "And definitely not Crepes."

"As if," she huffs. "Empty your pockets. Now."

"No." I say shortly.

"I am a prefect and you will respect me." She snaps. "Now. Empty. Your. Pockets." She punctuates the last with a raised eyebrow, her arms crossed.

"You have no proof Prefect," I spit contemptuously. "You assume that because I appear to be the most threatening that I attacked Carp. Not only is this profiling unprofessional, it is unfounded and uncorroborated. Even though the alleged 'victim' is right behind you and lucid enough to inform you that I actually intervened on his behalf, preventing a more serious and completely justified injury." I crush the Blood Pop between my teeth in anger, swiftly drawing another, irritated by how quickly I'm going through them at the moment.

She has the decency to look somewhat ashamed of herself. The compartment door opens and Draco emerges, Prefect Weasley's call of 'Abbot, Hannah,' following him. A rather confused Hannah enters the compartment, shooting me a look in askance. Draco moves past Clearwater to be with Craps and the other one, starting up a hushed conversation.

The next few minutes pass slowly as I deal with the massive headache that had been slowly forming since the start of this whole incident. I'm half-tempted to just talk to Phoenix again, and after quickly debating the pros and cons, I shrug before pulling him out. Fast as a flash, Penelope stands off the wall, snapping a silvery-blue shield into existence. I glare at her and put my wand away, insulted. I turn and slide down the wall, regarding Hermione with some disappointment.

"You've gotten angry again."

"I know," she says, her head resting against her knees.

"You've not been meditating." I guess.

"Yeah."

"That's not good for you."

She huffs, raising her head. "I know." She replies petulantly, resting her head against the wall.

"You must control-"

"Your anger, lest it control you." She interjects. "I know." The door slides open, and as I get to my feet I hear him call out: "Potter, Harrison."

I brush past Hannah and enter, resuming my seat. I wait patiently while he finishes writing his notes, still nursing my headache. He raises his head, eyes piercing and manner calm. When he speaks, it is with the same no-nonsense tone as before.

"Following protocol, I will be asking you seven questions. It is in your best interest to keep your answers brief but concise. If, at the end of the required seven questions I believe more to be necessary, you are required to answer them but may contest their legitimacy. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I reply. He nods before continuing.

"What prompted the event?"

"Cabs' use of the word mudblood in an attacking and insulting manner."

"Who was the assailant?"

"Hermione Granger sir."

"What weapon was used?"

"A long knife known as a zaraki."

"Do you know where it is now?"

"She still has it on her person."

"How well do you know the assailant?"

"We've been friends since I was seven, sir."

"Is this typical behavior?"

"It is not. While she usually responds to insults negatively, I have never known her to physically attack someone unless attacked first."

"What do you believe to be an appropriate punishment?"

"No less than twelve detentions, preferably in the morning, as she's not a morning person. The confiscation of her weapon, a letter home, and a probationary period of one month." My headache spikes into a migraine, and I miss the rest of what he says, barely conscious of the fact that I'm shaking his hand, and asleep before the door closes behind him.

**Unconsciousness**

"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! YOU ARE IN ABSOLUTELY NO SHAPE TO BE USING TELEKINESIS AND PSYCHIC SUGGESTION! I swear, it's like you're not even trying to preserve your continued sanity. From now until I say so, no magic, no telekinesis, and no telepathy. You break a single rule and I'll put you in a goddamn coma. **Wake up**."

My eyes snap open. My headache has quieted to a dull roar, leaving me lucid enough to sit up. I do so, idly noting that the books have been placed back onto my trunk and that it's getting dark outside. Both Draco and Hannah are looking at me with concern, which doesn't reassure me at all.

"What time is it?" I ask, unwrapping my last Blood Pop with sleep numbed fingers.

"Fivish." Draco answers.

"You've been asleep for the past two hours." Hannah informs me. "What happened?"

"I made one of the voices in my head very very angry." I mumble. "Why are you still here Draco? Shouldn't you be with your friends?"

"Not until you explain what the bloody hell happened to Crabbe." He states calmly.

"Hermione doesn't take kindly to insults." I reply, knowing my headache is about to get worse.

"Don't play me Potter," He snaps, "I am in no mood for this shit. She almost killed one of my friends. Murder for insult is unacceptable under any circumstance."

"It was barely a flesh wound and you know it." I drawl.

He sighs heavily, and I see Hannah relax out of the corner of my eye. "Still."

I launch into my answer immediately.

"As you may know, her mother is the Prime Minister of England at current. She and her family have been the target of assassinations, kidnappings, power plays, et cetera et cetera over much of the last four years. Consequently, she's on edge and on guard to some extent all the time. She's always armed. She is more on edge than she's ever been, in a new place with few friends, nothing familiar, and nothing predictable. In addition, Hannah had just had a meltdown. When Crabbe insulted her, he insulted not only her, but her parents, most importantly her mother, whom she looks up to. A mother who has taught her to be strong in the face of adversity, a mother she's nearly lost several times. When he insulted her, he insulted all that she is and all that she aspires to be. He presented himself as a threat, which certainly didn't help."

Draco and Hannah sit stunned. I repack my trunk, making sure to hide Hermione's weapons well, and tossing mine in on a hunch. In an attempt to break the tension, I set out a small box of matches I had on me and offered them each a Galleon if they could transfigure one of them into a needle before we reached the station.

There's moderate success. Malfoy's is metal, but still a match, while Hannah's is a needle, but still wooden. When the announcement that we were only five minutes away is given, they panic, looking at each other, then their individual results. With identical smiles, they both cast the spell on the same match. Draco's end is turning silver, and Hannah's is getting thinner and rounder. When the changes meet, there's a brief spark, the scent of ozone, and then with a flash, my trunk has a shiny new scorch mark. I glance at their faces and silently hand Hannah her Galleon. The train pulls to a stop and we get off, Draco still bitter about Hannah's win by technicality.

"Look man, it was technically a needle." I say, "End of discussion."

"Fine." He looks like he's going to say more, but a booming voice interrupts him.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here! Alright there Harry?" Draco, Hannah and I start heading towards him, and I see Prefects Weasley and Clearwater talking to him, Hermione, looking disgruntled and upset, between them. "C'mon, follow me- any more firs' years? Mind yer step now! Firs years follow me!"

We walk along a steep and narrow path, and one unfortunate student takes a tumble, people leaping aside as he rolls down, somehow making a corner. The lamplight at the front zooms away from us as Hagrid runs after the kid. An orb of white light appears near the front, and Prefect Weasley's voice shouts out, causing the hushed exclamations and conversations to cease.

"If everyone could please follow me, do be careful." With that, he turns and keeps going down the path. Draco and Hannah both whisper lumos, and pretty soon there's a scattering of white lights making their way down the hillside. There are gasps as people go around the bend, and as we do so ourselves, it's pretty evident why. "No more than four to a boat!" He calls out, and groups start forming and heading towards the line of boats floating a few feet from the shore.

"Damnit." I say, stopping.

"What?' Hannah asks.

"I forgot to change into my robes." I say, looking back questioningly.

"Too late now," Draco says glibly, "You'll probably get detention. Can we get a boat now?"

I shrug, following him and Hannah to the only available boat, which is already occupied. We step in, and with Hagrid's cry of 'FORWARD!' we're off. The silence is a mix of awed and awkward, as the other kid stared at his lap, dripping water and sniffling. We sail through a curtain of ivy and a tunnel, arriving at a humid, slightly creepy underground harbor, where the boats sail themselves neatly to the pebbled bank. A short walk later, Hagrid knocks on a massive wooden door.

A severe looking woman answers and ushers us into a room. I've been feeling tired again, and tune out her speech, trying to stay awake. Hannah whispers something, and then she presses a candy into my hand telling me to eat it. With a jolt, literally, I'm wide awake, my mouth tingly and incredible sour.

"The hell was that?" I ask, breathing shallowly.

"A Jitter-Jolt." She says, turning to the sopping kid beside me. She presses a candy into his hand as well, a small round ball she calls a hotshot. He puts it in his mouth and almost instantly he's flushed and his clothes are steaming. He tilts his head back and a ball of fire shots up into the air. Someone screams.

As I look for the source of the noise, more people shout, pointing at what appear to be ghosts in the middle of a discussion. I ignore them, turning to the kid next to me, who's lightly damp.

"My name's Harry." I say, putting my hand forward.

"I'm Neville." He whispers, looking up and squeaking, dropping his eyes back to the floor.

Some kid raises his voice, clearly in a heated argument, shouting that we'll be fighting a troll or some such bullshit. He's pretty easy to locate, as he's a bit taller than most of us. _He looks like Percy. _The severe woman strides back in, and people snap to attention, though still fidgety and nervous.

"Form a line and follow me." She leads us back through the door and across a massive entrance hall, through another set of large doors and into a pretty full dining hall. The candles float, and I notice the ceiling is heavily enchanted. It shows the night sky with such clarity that my first thought was that it wasn't there. I reason that there must be a ceiling, since it's definitely got some corridor or classroom above it.

I hear a lot of whispers about me, and some about Hermione. I stick out because of my lack of robes and hat and uniform, Hermione because she was flanked by the much taller Percy and Penelope. The last kid passes through the doors and they close. Everyone's attention is drawn to the front, where a tattered old hat sits on a three legged stool. There is an air of quiet anticipation, and the hat twitches before bursting into song.

**Sorting Song**

_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you _

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart; _

(Some of the far right table fistpumps)

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal, _

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true,_

_And unafraid of toil;_

(The table immediately to our right smiles)

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

(A multitude of blue and bronze sparks rise from our left)

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

(The table to the far left smirks, waving politely)

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands _(though I have none)

_For I'm a Thinking Cap!_

There was a brief applause, during which the hat bowed, before the severe woman gave instructions began reading from a long scroll.

"Abbott, Hannah!" I smile at her as she walks to the front, confident and unflinching. The hat falls over her eyes, and there's complete silence.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat shouts, to the cheers of the table on our left. She walks over to it, where the end closest to her is open. As she sits next to a friendly seventh year, the next name is called.

In short order, "Bones, Susan" went to Hufflepuff, followed by "Boot, Terry" and "Brocklehurst, Mandy", who went to Ravenclaw, "Brown, Lavender" was the first new Gryffindor, "Bulstrode, Millicent" the first Slytherin, "Finch-Fletchley, Justin" to Hufflepuff, and "Finnigan, Seamus" to Gryffindor.

"Granger, Hermione." The woman gazes at her sternly as she is escorted by the prefects to the front. Someone from the Gryffindor table wolf-whistles, and the hat is lowered onto her head.

"GRYFFINDOR!" The woman takes the hat. Hermione is escorted to her table by Percy while Penelope goes to the Ravenclaw table.

"Longbottom, Neville" goes to Gryffindor, "MacDougal, Morag" swaggers into Slytherin, though "Malfoy, Draco" shows more decorum. The rest go by quickly, "Moon", "Nott", "Parkinson", "Patil" and "Patil", "Perks", "Thomas"- I frown, wondering why I was skipped. I must've zoned out, because suddenly I'm the only one left.

"Who are you?" the woman asks, studying the scroll intensely.

"Harrison James Potter." The hall gasps, and the Headmaster rises, his wand out and face thunderous.

"You will not lie to me," he intones, the fatal seriousness of his tone quelling the gasps and craning necks. "You will not endanger my students." He glares at me, and I can't look away, the killing intent that stills me contradicted by the regret in his eyes. A flash of red fades into black.

Please review, and, if you would like to apply as a beta, (desperately needed) please PM me.


	7. The Sevenfold Silence

**_Hospital Wing_  
><strong>

Sitting, steeped in shadow, the first silence is his. It lurked within him, twining 'twixt the cracks and crevices of his scarred and broken heart. Had there been friends, their gentle laughs from easy bickering would've driven it away. If there were students, their whispered conversations, careful quiet steps, and quick withering glances would've held it at bay. But there were no friends, no students, and so the silence stays.

Standing sadly, with restless regrets, the second silence is hers. They whispered in her thoughts, echoing 'Why didn't I?' over and over, again and again. Had there been good thoughts, of the pranks and the laughs, the Quidditch and the pride, the fading echoes of their arguments and bickerings would soothe them. But they were drowned in remembrances of war and fear, so she looked on, and shed a tear.

Stilled and solemn, the third silence is his. It is bowed with the weight of his age, the weight of his power, the weight of his mistakes. Rooted deeply in his soul, it was as a willow, scarred and hobbled, bent and battered by the storms that weathered it, warped and pale by the flames that kissed it. The willow drank deep from the well of unshed tears, stored from all the years, the tears that could not be shed, just as he could never bleed, lest his pedestal crumble, lest he lose what was never his. Had there been something to do, the creaking of his limbs might've set it aside. Wizened would the willow weep, stricken should the silence sleep, cracked could the cascade creep. But of course he could not cry, for surely then he would die.

Stressed and sleepless, the fourth and fretful silence is hers. The sound of a woman waiting, the sight of a Madame made mad, part with anger, part with patience unpossessed. The scent of a dame disheveled, dirtied, drained, and dragging on; the acrid tang of nervous sweat mixing with the maudlin musk of her poignant perfume. The tripping touch, deft and clinical as she traced and catalogued the scars scattered across his skin. She shook when her scans showed broken bones, not many, but enough. Wrapped in wrath and wretch, she waited.

Still. Utterly still, the fifth silence is his. His mind was a maelstrom, a tempest, a whirlwind. His silence was in absence. There was no smile, no joy in his eyes, no spring in his step. He was hollow, his eyes unseeing, nothing moved, except to blink, except to breathe. His silence echoed throughout him, his intelligence paralyzed in the shock. Never had he seemed so small.

She sat closest to him, holding his hand, trying to comfort him. Now, as the flailing arms of the newborn dawn moved across the brightening horizon, she alone did not dwell on nightmares past. She was lost, unsure of what to do. In her silence, she calmed herself, tried to think what he would need, so she sat, less lost, and waited for him to wake. She sat in the sixth silence.

So seven slumbered, silent, serious, statue still. The sleeping one is sleeping still. His silence slipped and slithered through the rest. His silence did not come from scars, not from regret, nor lack of choice. Came it not from wretched waiting, lack of action, or waiting calm. The last silence is his, and it is absolute, for even the never ending drums of war cease in silence sevenfold.

**AN: I've been struggling with the direction I wanted to take this story, but have recently decided on leaning more towards mystery and drama in a style similar to "The Harsh Truth" and "The Real Monster" by Shadenight123.**


End file.
